This is the third chakra workshop I've attended. By now, I thought I could recite the basics in my sleep. And yet, I keep hearing familiar things like they're new. The words haven't changed—but their meanings shift. Maybe I'm finally listening. Or maybe life has just worn me down to the point where the questions actually land.
Yesterday's focus was the root chakra. The one tied to safety, stability, and tribe—family, blood, and belonging. I was told to sit with the idea of presence. Not in a poetic, Instagram caption kind of way. Just Be in the moment. And from there, ask—Who am I?
It's a question that sounds abstract until it crashes into real life. And right now, my life is jam-packed. My sister's away, so I'm juggling care for my niece. Work is its usual hurricane. A close friend's father is slipping away. An ex-colleague has floated a consulting gig I should apparently be "perfect for." And somewhere in that chaos, I'm supposed to plan the interiors of a new house. Another friend is buzzing about his son's wedding—and in the same breath, calling me to vent about his 80-year-old mother, who decided to stand for four hours frying pooris precisely how she likes them. She collapsed from exhaustion, and Sanjay was stuck somewhere between panic, guilt, frustration, and the desperate need to take a breath. I was standing in my office, still holding the terrible cup of tea from the vending machine, fresh off a sharp, exhausting argument with my sales manager. My jaw was still clenched. My pulse hadn't slowed. And now I was trying to calm someone else down.
So there I was—one hand holding my mug, the other holding the phone—offering soothing words while my brain was still on fire—a banter of speeding words in a tornado of hurling moments.
Am I supposed to be grounded? In the moment? How? And where exactly am I supposed to be in this "moment"? They're all elbowing each other for space. Is it even possible to sit still in the middle of that? Or are we just cycling through our roles—caretaker, friend, professional, dreamer—without ever fully stepping out of any of them?
The other day, I had workers over at the new house: one contractor, four carpenters, a plumber, an electrician, and two drivers thrown in for good measure. All men. All marched through like they were prepping for a Mars landing. Measuring walls, tapping floors, opening cupboards, and announcing things like, "This will have to go," and "Madam, this floor planning is from another era."
I was nodding, asking questions, pretending to understand what "load-bearing" meant. Then, out of nowhere, the question—Who am I blindsided me. Not gently. It's more like an ambush. Borderline accusatory.
Who was I in that room? The homeowner. The one with the budget. The final say. And I still felt like I'd wandered onto a film set and missed the script briefing.
So I did what anyone would do when existential dread meets electrical fittings: I breathed and said, "JUST just do what I'm asking you to do."
Not my most spiritual moment. But very much mine.
Strangely, all of this reminds me of when I was training for a marathon. My trainer—who I initially thought was a sadist in running shoes—insisted I run barefoot. Not to "connect with the earth" or anything romantic like that. Just to feel every step. "Rest your foot fully. Feel the ground with each stride. Every inch. Then move." It was agonizingly slow. I wanted speed. He wanted presence. One nano-step at a time.
It was like being ambushed by Victor Frankl mid-run.
It is the pause between inhale and exhale—that minuscule beat between breathing in and out. Like a lightning bolt, it reminded me of Frankl again—the space between stimulus and response. That invisible pause where choice lives.
If I believe in that pause—and try to notice it, even just once—does that count as being present? Or am I just dissecting the moment so much that I miss it entirely?
Honestly, I don't know. But it's forcing me to look closer at the "I" in all this. The one who is running, signing checks, planning house interiors, juggling emotions, and trying to track her breath.
The root chakra is supposed to be about stability. But maybe it's also about not falling apart mid-scene. Maybe it's learning to carry the chaos with a bit of humour, a little awareness, and the tiny hope that even in the blur, you're still somewhere in there—trying to land on your own two feet.
And maybe—just maybe—if I'd remembered the marathon, I could've placed my words like my feet and slowed down. Felt the floor. Said, "Yes, that floor plan is from another era," and take one grounded step at a time. But then again, that's the thing about wisdom. It always shows up just after the contractor leaves.
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